


Ritual and Sacrifice

by steelneena



Series: Fire and Water and Dark of Night [2]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, M/M, The different chapters have different pronouns. Something for everone, The ritual is objectively gruesome, but there's not really any gore?, description in end notes, i guess, it's just maybe not something for everyone, night of the fateful masquerade, pre storyline, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-31 14:02:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21447379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelneena/pseuds/steelneena
Summary: Asra makes a bargain that will change the course of fate.
Relationships: Apprentice/Asra (The Arcana)
Series: Fire and Water and Dark of Night [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1546195
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	1. Female Apprentice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grbgefsh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grbgefsh/gifts).

> grbgefsh left a comment on "Into Ashes" suggesting I write this someday. I guess today was that day. I hope you like it. 
> 
> Unbetad.
> 
> Music! Written to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0dxNxYElpdY
> 
> Some lovely music that makes me think of Asra: https://marghalary.tumblr.com/post/187669213842/so-peaceful-souvenir-a-brother-singing-ancient
> 
> Different Chapters for different MC pronouns.
> 
> See end notes for description of what happens if you're not sure you want to read.

Heart pounding against his rib cage, Asra Alnazar raced away from the grisly scene, the red haze of the events already fading to a thick miasma with every thundering step he took, footfalls reverberating in his ears as surely as a heartbeat. Against the side of his leg, his satchel thumped, creating a stuttering double beat, the arrhythmia of two out of sync entities, like the heavenly stars, circling, circling, crossing paths, but never meeting. The marble halls rung out too, the arching, cavernous ceiling glaring down on him, as if threatening to crash down around him at the death throes of their late master, as if his inhuman shrieks could set the walls to crumbling and the towering windows to shatter into the million, billion screaming reflections of the Lord of the palace, reaching their grasping golden clawed hands out to tug him back, drag him into the hell-depths of his secret ritual room.

The toe of his boot caught as he careened around a corner, stumbling, nearly crashing into the wall before righting himself, skidding down another hall, the door to the gardens – and to absolution - waiting at the end.

Hounds howled out their mournful, hateful cries behind him.

Asra scrabbled at the handle to the paned door, ratcheting at the latch fruitlessly. Beyond, there was nothing but the blackness; an endless abyss of onyx and obsidian and it felt so _so_ achingly close and so _so _very far away.

Anxious, ambling sounds, the scratch of claws on stone, were growing ever closer.

His hands slipped slick once more at the handle before they burst open, thrusting him eagerly through their hungry maw into the unnatural darkness descendent upon the palace. For a moment, he floundered, catching his balance, eyes adjusting too slowly to make out anything more than the ghosting silhouettes of trees and shrubs, before blindly plunging into the unknown.

Down the steps _one, two, three, four, five, six,…eleven,…thirteen…_ and across the fountain patio towards the willow – _beloved, comforting willow, the tree that was grown large and strong from the power of his grief, fed by sweet tears and anguish_ – through the grasses, leaping the flower beds, howls stymied behind him finally. Asra chanced a look back over his shoulder, still moving as fast as wind in the typhoon, could see their backlit, slender, near alien shapes, watching him, growling, and whining in their own grief as the Thief who’d come in the night stole away into it once more.

He did not stop running.

Not until he reached the docks.

His side ached, and his breath hitched uncomfortably, but his pulse ran strong and true – true enough for what was to come, strong enough for what _must_ be brought to pass. Feeling safe enough, for the time being, he ducked into the little alcove that had once been the bedroom and living room and kitchen all, that place which had seen him through a multitude of hardships and sorrows, and retrieved the waiting sachet of herbs, the small box of supplies, and made off once more.

Painstakingly, the moon pressed her way beyond the sinister, swallowing mist, and lit his path.

He’d considered the place for a long, long time. Outside? In the cave? In the meadow? Upon the hill?

But it was too _him_ and not enough _her_, and so, he wove his way through the dead, reeking, plague-ridden streets to the place that they had once called their home.

His palm to its familiar wooden door sent spirals of magic through the infrastructure, the fractalizing, glyph collage of protection and love, of house and home, of shelter and warmth, of temperance. Of love. Each one, a lock, breaking open the seal on his heart and the door.

Inside, bare of dust, reconstructed with care, the jars full of ingredients, the hearth stocked with wood, the curtains pulled, fresh flowers in the vase on the table, was the preserved remnants of a dead life. A life waiting to be resurrected, waiting for the wind to breath fresh, summer air through its winter windows, frosted with memory and marred by grief.

The room beyond, draped darkly, the only remnant of mourning, would serve as the chamber of reunion, the doorway to a new future, the future long, long deserved. A future shriveled and burnt to the fluttering, butterfly wisps of ash and regret.

He’d removed the table the day before, and the carpet along with it, clearing the floor, preparing the circle, the symbols all. With a flick of his finger, he set the incense burning in its holder, and breathed deeply the wafting perfume. Heady and intoxicating, its scent drew him down, down, drowned him completely in the whisper soft touch of reverence, in the sparkling, crackling fire of magic in his veins, unfamiliar, usually such a cool, gentle trickling of water, the extra ingredients of fear and desperation tainting its purity.

Setting the sachet and the box down beside the circle, Asra first went to the window, casting open the heavy drapes, inviting in the lucid moonlight, silver-gilding with its radiance all corners of the shadow raised room. Single-mindedly, he barred the door, propping the chair up firmly under its knob and drew off his shirt, laying it over the seat before returning to kneel within the circle.

Gentle fingers of smoke guided his hand, curling and caressing as he lifted the incense into the air, tracing the glyphs before him, forming light and energy from its fragrance, the haunting memory of jasmine and magnolia and the effervescence of passionflower.

His heart slowed, finally, nearly to ceasing its rabbiting energy, and the whole world slowed in time with him, motes of dust catching on moonbeams, slowing their dull whorls to near stillness in tandem with his heart.

As if by rote, Asra arranged the circle. Rough cut gems settled in little, quiet bowls of unrippling water, a sprinkling of lavender across the north, cardamom through the south, falling soundlessly to the floor. The petals of belladonna in the east, lilies to the west.

Her mortar and pestle felt like old friends in his hands as he ground up the tiny red seeds, their juices bursting forth, staining the sides of the stone bowl. Carefully, he set the pestle down, and lifted from its side the dagger, cold steel bright and gleaming at him, like a wicked smile. The tip pressed easily into his thumb and he let it clatter to the ground at his knees, squeezing his thumb so that his precious life could mix with the red of the pomegranate seeds, _one, two, three, four, five, six, seven_ drops of blood, seven pulses of his heart, seven breaths of his own life, and then, stilled the flow without closing the wound. A scar to remain. A physical reminder. Once more, he drew up the pestle and set to the mixture _one, two, three, four, five, six, seven_ times. Very carefully, he set it before him, put the knife and the pestle aside, and then, breathed deeply the incense once more.

With a trembling hand, Asra dipped his fore and middle fingers into the mixture and brought them to his chest. Vermilion painted his fingertips, and for a moment, he could only stare at them as, slowly, the tremor subsided and he pressed them against his skin, muttering, chanting, singing, channeling his magic as he carefully drew the glyph over his heart, concentric circles, intricate compass points, the diamond edges of disastrous devotion, sharper than the dagger point to his tender flesh.

When the last line was drawn, the last ringing song-word left his lips, the blood red seal burned bright white, illuminating the whole room before subsiding into a soft, gently pulsing glow.

And, in the still, as though the world had simply ceased to turn, the Magician pressed his hand beneath his chest and drew forth his beating heart. 

Asra’s breath caught in his throat, stilled. Crystalline, yet alive, thrumming, bloodless, glowing, it rested in his hand, the very fruit of life. Gentle, he rested it in the little circle before him. The constriction still present, the twinging of discomfort constant, he took a shaking breath, blinked the tears from his eyes and continued the spell, the song spilling forth from his lips like water from a fountain even as he reached for the dagger, his hand shaking ceaselessly, and lifted it purposefully, grasping its hilt both hands and brought it to a terrifying precipice above his heart.

There he wavered, stilling as the honey words slowed on his lips completely, the last word ringing out strangely in the muted, shuttered room.

A breath of silence stole through the air.

Bright steel flashed as Asra brought the blade down piercing his own heart where it lay, vulnerable, twitching. A cry – his own – shattered the silence as the pitiful thing gave a last, meagre throb and then split, perfectly, down the middle as Asra doubled over from the exquisiteness of the absolute, incomparable pain.

Deserved. Tenfold.

He sat back up after a moment, though still leaning, picking back up the spell with a shuddering voice, thick with pain and lifted the right half of the heart – _not his, not anymore, the bargain stuck -_ up to the moonlight.

A gifted heart for a stolen body.

The moonlight softened, subtly, gently, and then, vanished. The only light in the room burned on his chest, lay cool in his hands, and, even that was slowly fading away as the black miasma seeped into the room, steeling into the corners, eating up the light where it was found, closing in around him, claustrophobic and choking.

_The bargain is stuck_.

From his proffered hand, the weight vanished and he felt a chilly shroud fall over his bare shoulders as he reached vainly for the remaining half, it’s light flickering in and out, a vice grip suffocating around it. He felt the warmth of his own hand when it closed around the pitiful remnant of his heart, lifting and pressing it back into his chest beneath the glowing sigil, sealing it there with the final, guttural song words from his lips, choked off through his tears.

And then, the cold receded, and the darkness faded and the moonlight returned, and with it, _her_.

There in the dark, in the place where they parted the veil for the future together, his _heart_ was reborn. Sobbing, with pain, with relief, with love, Asra collapsed, pulling her into his arms where they lay in the circle on the floor, and held her close, and felt her breathe and was, at last, content.

Out to the mother moon he looked, blinking at her blinding beauty, thanking the stars, cursing himself, until blackness took him and he knew no more.


	2. Male Apprentice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I missed any pronouns, please let me know.

Heart pounding against his rib cage, Asra Alnazar raced away from the grisly scene, the red haze of the events already fading to a thick miasma with every thundering step he took, footfalls reverberating in his ears as surely as a heartbeat. Against the side of his leg, his satchel thumped, creating a stuttering double beat, the arrhythmia of two out of sync entities, like the heavenly stars, circling, circling, crossing paths, but never meeting. The marble halls rung out too, the arching, cavernous ceiling glaring down on him, as if threatening to crash down around him at the death throes of their late master, as if his inhuman shrieks could set the walls to crumbling and the towering windows to shatter into the million, billion screaming reflections of the Lord of the palace, reaching their grasping golden clawed hands out to tug him back, drag him into the hell-depths of his secret ritual room.

The toe of his boot caught as he careened around a corner, stumbling, nearly crashing into the wall before righting himself, skidding down another hall, the door to the gardens – and to absolution - waiting at the end.

Hounds howled out their mournful, hateful cries behind him.

Asra scrabbled at the handle to the paned door, ratcheting at the latch fruitlessly. Beyond, there was nothing but the blackness; an endless abyss of onyx and obsidian and it felt so _so_ achingly close and so _so _very far away.

Anxious, ambling sounds, the scratch of claws on stone, were growing ever closer.

His hands slipped slick once more at the handle before they burst open, thrusting him eagerly through their hungry maw into the unnatural darkness descendent upon the palace. For a moment, he floundered, catching his balance, eyes adjusting too slowly to make out anything more than the ghosting silhouettes of trees and shrubs, before blindly plunging into the unknown.

Down the steps _one, two, three, four, five, six,…eleven,…thirteen…_ and across the fountain patio towards the willow – _beloved, comforting willow, the tree that was grown large and strong from the power of his grief, fed by sweet tears and anguish_ – through the grasses, leaping the flower beds, howls stymied behind him finally. Asra chanced a look back over his shoulder, still moving as fast as wind in the typhoon, could see their backlit, slender, near alien shapes, watching him, growling, and whining in their own grief as the Thief who’d come in the night stole away into it once more.

He did not stop running.

Not until he reached the docks.

His side ached, and his breath hitched uncomfortably, but his pulse ran strong and true – true enough for what was to come, strong enough for what _must_ be brought to pass. Feeling safe enough, for the time being, he ducked into the little alcove that had once been the bedroom and living room and kitchen all, that place which had seen him through a multitude of hardships and sorrows, and retrieved the waiting sachet of herbs, the small box of supplies, and made off once more.

Painstakingly, the moon pressed her way beyond the sinister, swallowing mist, and lit his path.

He’d considered the place for a long, long time. Outside? In the cave? In the meadow? Upon the hill?

But it was too _him_ and not enough _her_, and so, he wove his way through the dead, reeking, plague-ridden streets to the place that they had once called their home.

His palm to its familiar wooden door sent spirals of magic through the infrastructure, the fractalizing, glyph collage of protection and love, of house and home, of shelter and warmth, of temperance. Of love. Each one, a lock, breaking open the seal on his heart and the door.

Inside, bare of dust, reconstructed with care, the jars full of ingredients, the hearth stocked with wood, the curtains pulled, fresh flowers in the vase on the table, was the preserved remnants of a dead life. A life waiting to be resurrected, waiting for the wind to breath fresh, summer air through its winter windows, frosted with memory and marred by grief.

The room beyond, draped darkly, the only remnant of mourning, would serve as the chamber of reunion, the doorway to a new future, the future long, long deserved. A future shriveled and burnt to the fluttering, butterfly wisps of ash and regret.

He’d removed the table the day before, and the carpet along with it, clearing the floor, preparing the circle, the symbols all. With a flick of his finger, he set the incense burning in its holder, and breathed deeply the wafting perfume. Heady and intoxicating, its scent drew him down, down, drowned him completely in the whisper soft touch of reverence, in the sparkling, crackling fire of magic in his veins, unfamiliar, usually such a cool, gentle trickling of water, the extra ingredients of fear and desperation tainting its purity.

Setting the sachet and the box down beside the circle, Asra first went to the window, casting open the heavy drapes, inviting in the lucid moonlight, silver-gilding with its radiance all corners of the shadow raised room. Single-mindedly, he barred the door, propping the chair up firmly under its knob and drew off his shirt, laying it over the seat before returning to kneel within the circle.

Gentle fingers of smoke guided his hand, curling and caressing as he lifted the incense into the air, tracing the glyphs before him, forming light and energy from its fragrance, the haunting memory of jasmine and magnolia and the effervescence of passionflower.

His heart slowed, finally, nearly to ceasing its rabbiting energy, and the whole world slowed in time with him, motes of dust catching on moonbeams, slowing their dull whorls to near stillness in tandem with his heart.

As if by rote, Asra arranged the circle. Rough cut gems settled in little, quiet bowls of unrippling water, a sprinkling of lavender across the north, cardamom through the south, falling soundlessly to the floor. The petals of belladonna in the east, lilies to the west.

Her mortar and pestle felt like old friends in his hands as he ground up the tiny red seeds, their juices bursting forth, staining the sides of the stone bowl. Carefully, he set the pestle down, and lifted from its side the dagger, cold steel bright and gleaming at him, like a wicked smile. The tip pressed easily into his thumb and he let it clatter to the ground at his knees, squeezing his thumb so that his precious life could mix with the red of the pomegranate seeds, _one, two, three, four, five, six, seven_ drops of blood, seven pulses of his heart, seven breaths of his own life, and then, stilled the flow without closing the wound. A scar to remain. A physical reminder. Once more, he drew up the pestle and set to the mixture _one, two, three, four, five, six, seven_ times. Very carefully, he set it before him, put the knife and the pestle aside, and then, breathed deeply the incense once more.

With a trembling hand, Asra dipped his fore and middle fingers into the mixture and brought them to his chest. Vermilion painted his fingertips, and for a moment, he could only stare at them as, slowly, the tremor subsided and he pressed them against his skin, muttering, chanting, singing, channeling his magic as he carefully drew the glyph over his heart, concentric circles, intricate compass points, the diamond edges of disastrous devotion, sharper than the dagger point to his tender flesh.

When the last line was drawn, the last ringing song-word left his lips, the blood red seal burned bright white, illuminating the whole room before subsiding into a soft, gently pulsing glow.

And, in the still, as though the world had simply ceased to turn, the Magician pressed his hand beneath his chest and drew forth his beating heart. 

Asra’s breath caught in his throat, stilled. Crystalline, yet alive, thrumming, bloodless, glowing, it rested in his hand, the very fruit of life. Gentle, he rested it in the little circle before him. The constriction still present, the twinging of discomfort constant, he took a shaking breath, blinked the tears from his eyes and continued the spell, the song spilling forth from his lips like water from a fountain even as he reached for the dagger, his hand shaking ceaselessly, and lifted it purposefully, grasping its hilt both hands and brought it to a terrifying precipice above his heart.

There he wavered, stilling as the honey words slowed on his lips completely, the last word ringing out strangely in the muted, shuttered room.

A breath of silence stole through the air.

Bright steel flashed as Asra brought the blade down piercing his own heart where it lay, vulnerable, twitching. A cry – his own – shattered the silence as the pitiful thing gave a last, meagre throb and then split, perfectly, down the middle as Asra doubled over from the exquisiteness of the absolute, incomparable pain.

Deserved. Tenfold.

He sat back up after a moment, though still leaning, picking back up the spell with a shuddering voice, thick with pain and lifted the right half of the heart – _not his, not anymore, the bargain stuck -_ up to the moonlight.

A gifted heart for a stolen body.

The moonlight softened, subtly, gently, and then, vanished. The only light in the room burned on his chest, lay cool in his hands, and, even that was slowly fading away as the black miasma seeped into the room, steeling into the corners, eating up the light where it was found, closing in around him, claustrophobic and choking.

_The bargain is stuck_.

From his proffered hand, the weight vanished and he felt a chilly shroud fall over his bare shoulders as he reached vainly for the remaining half, it’s light flickering in and out, a vice grip suffocating around it. He felt the warmth of his own hand when it closed around the pitiful remnant of his heart, lifting and pressing it back into his chest beneath the glowing sigil, sealing it there with the final, guttural song words from his lips, choked off through his tears.

And then, the cold receded, and the darkness faded and the moonlight returned, and with it, _her_.

There in the dark, in the place where they parted the veil for the future together, his _heart_ was reborn. Sobbing, with pain, with relief, with love, Asra collapsed, pulling him into his arms where they lay in the circle on the floor, and held him close, and felt him breathe and was, at last, content.

Out to the mother moon he looked, blinking at her blinding beauty, thanking the stars, cursing himself, until blackness took him and he knew no more.


	3. Gender Neutral Apprentice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I missed any pronouns, let me know.

Heart pounding against his rib cage, Asra Alnazar raced away from the grisly scene, the red haze of the events already fading to a thick miasma with every thundering step he took, footfalls reverberating in his ears as surely as a heartbeat. Against the side of his leg, his satchel thumped, creating a stuttering double beat, the arrhythmia of two out of sync entities, like the heavenly stars, circling, circling, crossing paths, but never meeting. The marble halls rung out too, the arching, cavernous ceiling glaring down on him, as if threatening to crash down around him at the death throes of their late master, as if his inhuman shrieks could set the walls to crumbling and the towering windows to shatter into the million, billion screaming reflections of the Lord of the palace, reaching their grasping golden clawed hands out to tug him back, drag him into the hell-depths of his secret ritual room.

The toe of his boot caught as he careened around a corner, stumbling, nearly crashing into the wall before righting himself, skidding down another hall, the door to the gardens – and to absolution - waiting at the end.

Hounds howled out their mournful, hateful cries behind him.

Asra scrabbled at the handle to the paned door, ratcheting at the latch fruitlessly. Beyond, there was nothing but the blackness; an endless abyss of onyx and obsidian and it felt so _so_ achingly close and so _so _very far away.

Anxious, ambling sounds, the scratch of claws on stone, were growing ever closer.

His hands slipped slick once more at the handle before they burst open, thrusting him eagerly through their hungry maw into the unnatural darkness descendent upon the palace. For a moment, he floundered, catching his balance, eyes adjusting too slowly to make out anything more than the ghosting silhouettes of trees and shrubs, before blindly plunging into the unknown.

Down the steps _one, two, three, four, five, six,…eleven,…thirteen…_ and across the fountain patio towards the willow – _beloved, comforting willow, the tree that was grown large and strong from the power of his grief, fed by sweet tears and anguish_ – through the grasses, leaping the flower beds, howls stymied behind him finally. Asra chanced a look back over his shoulder, still moving as fast as wind in the typhoon, could see their backlit, slender, near alien shapes, watching him, growling, and whining in their own grief as the Thief who’d come in the night stole away into it once more.

He did not stop running.

Not until he reached the docks.

His side ached, and his breath hitched uncomfortably, but his pulse ran strong and true – true enough for what was to come, strong enough for what _must_ be brought to pass. Feeling safe enough, for the time being, he ducked into the little alcove that had once been the bedroom and living room and kitchen all, that place which had seen him through a multitude of hardships and sorrows, and retrieved the waiting sachet of herbs, the small box of supplies, and made off once more.

Painstakingly, the moon pressed her way beyond the sinister, swallowing mist, and lit his path.

He’d considered the place for a long, long time. Outside? In the cave? In the meadow? Upon the hill?

But it was too _him_ and not enough _her_, and so, he wove his way through the dead, reeking, plague-ridden streets to the place that they had once called their home.

His palm to its familiar wooden door sent spirals of magic through the infrastructure, the fractalizing, glyph collage of protection and love, of house and home, of shelter and warmth, of temperance. Of love. Each one, a lock, breaking open the seal on his heart and the door.

Inside, bare of dust, reconstructed with care, the jars full of ingredients, the hearth stocked with wood, the curtains pulled, fresh flowers in the vase on the table, was the preserved remnants of a dead life. A life waiting to be resurrected, waiting for the wind to breath fresh, summer air through its winter windows, frosted with memory and marred by grief.

The room beyond, draped darkly, the only remnant of mourning, would serve as the chamber of reunion, the doorway to a new future, the future long, long deserved. A future shriveled and burnt to the fluttering, butterfly wisps of ash and regret.

He’d removed the table the day before, and the carpet along with it, clearing the floor, preparing the circle, the symbols all. With a flick of his finger, he set the incense burning in its holder, and breathed deeply the wafting perfume. Heady and intoxicating, its scent drew him down, down, drowned him completely in the whisper soft touch of reverence, in the sparkling, crackling fire of magic in his veins, unfamiliar, usually such a cool, gentle trickling of water, the extra ingredients of fear and desperation tainting its purity.

Setting the sachet and the box down beside the circle, Asra first went to the window, casting open the heavy drapes, inviting in the lucid moonlight, silver-gilding with its radiance all corners of the shadow raised room. Single-mindedly, he barred the door, propping the chair up firmly under its knob and drew off his shirt, laying it over the seat before returning to kneel within the circle.

Gentle fingers of smoke guided his hand, curling and caressing as he lifted the incense into the air, tracing the glyphs before him, forming light and energy from its fragrance, the haunting memory of jasmine and magnolia and the effervescence of passionflower.

His heart slowed, finally, nearly to ceasing its rabbiting energy, and the whole world slowed in time with him, motes of dust catching on moonbeams, slowing their dull whorls to near stillness in tandem with his heart.

As if by rote, Asra arranged the circle. Rough cut gems settled in little, quiet bowls of unrippling water, a sprinkling of lavender across the north, cardamom through the south, falling soundlessly to the floor. The petals of belladonna in the east, lilies to the west.

Her mortar and pestle felt like old friends in his hands as he ground up the tiny red seeds, their juices bursting forth, staining the sides of the stone bowl. Carefully, he set the pestle down, and lifted from its side the dagger, cold steel bright and gleaming at him, like a wicked smile. The tip pressed easily into his thumb and he let it clatter to the ground at his knees, squeezing his thumb so that his precious life could mix with the red of the pomegranate seeds, _one, two, three, four, five, six, seven_ drops of blood, seven pulses of his heart, seven breaths of his own life, and then, stilled the flow without closing the wound. A scar to remain. A physical reminder. Once more, he drew up the pestle and set to the mixture _one, two, three, four, five, six, seven_ times. Very carefully, he set it before him, put the knife and the pestle aside, and then, breathed deeply the incense once more.

With a trembling hand, Asra dipped his fore and middle fingers into the mixture and brought them to his chest. Vermilion painted his fingertips, and for a moment, he could only stare at them as, slowly, the tremor subsided and he pressed them against his skin, muttering, chanting, singing, channeling his magic as he carefully drew the glyph over his heart, concentric circles, intricate compass points, the diamond edges of disastrous devotion, sharper than the dagger point to his tender flesh.

When the last line was drawn, the last ringing song-word left his lips, the blood red seal burned bright white, illuminating the whole room before subsiding into a soft, gently pulsing glow.

And, in the still, as though the world had simply ceased to turn, the Magician pressed his hand beneath his chest and drew forth his beating heart. 

Asra’s breath caught in his throat, stilled. Crystalline, yet alive, thrumming, bloodless, glowing, it rested in his hand, the very fruit of life. Gentle, he rested it in the little circle before him. The constriction still present, the twinging of discomfort constant, he took a shaking breath, blinked the tears from his eyes and continued the spell, the song spilling forth from his lips like water from a fountain even as he reached for the dagger, his hand shaking ceaselessly, and lifted it purposefully, grasping its hilt both hands and brought it to a terrifying precipice above his heart.

There he wavered, stilling as the honey words slowed on his lips completely, the last word ringing out strangely in the muted, shuttered room.

A breath of silence stole through the air.

Bright steel flashed as Asra brought the blade down piercing his own heart where it lay, vulnerable, twitching. A cry – his own – shattered the silence as the pitiful thing gave a last, meagre throb and then split, perfectly, down the middle as Asra doubled over from the exquisiteness of the absolute, incomparable pain.

Deserved. Tenfold.

He sat back up after a moment, though still leaning, picking back up the spell with a shuddering voice, thick with pain and lifted the right half of the heart – _not his, not anymore, the bargain stuck -_ up to the moonlight.

A gifted heart for a stolen body.

The moonlight softened, subtly, gently, and then, vanished. The only light in the room burned on his chest, lay cool in his hands, and, even that was slowly fading away as the black miasma seeped into the room, steeling into the corners, eating up the light where it was found, closing in around him, claustrophobic and choking.

_The bargain is stuck_.

From his proffered hand, the weight vanished and he felt a chilly shroud fall over his bare shoulders as he reached vainly for the remaining half, it’s light flickering in and out, a vice grip suffocating around it. He felt the warmth of his own hand when it closed around the pitiful remnant of his heart, lifting and pressing it back into his chest beneath the glowing sigil, sealing it there with the final, guttural song words from his lips, choked off through his tears.

And then, the cold receded, and the darkness faded and the moonlight returned, and with it, _her_.

There in the dark, in the place where they parted the veil for the future together, his _heart_ was reborn. Sobbing, with pain, with relief, with love, Asra collapsed, pulling them into his arms where they lay in the circle on the floor, and held them close, and felt them breathe and was, at last, content.

Out to the mother moon he looked, blinking at her blinding beauty, thanking the stars, cursing himself, until blackness took him and he knew no more.

**Author's Note:**

> Asra uses a spell to remove his actual heart and cuts it in half to bring the Apprentice back to life. There is no blood involved in this process, but there is pain.


End file.
